A Single Sprig
by Beau2809
Summary: A few short drabbley oneshots. No longer spoiler free.
1. Chapter 1

Call the midwife belongs to the BBC, Jennifer Worth, and Heidi Thomas McGann

Dedicated to some of the most amazing friends a girl could ask for. Love you xxx

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><p>It wouldn't do, Patrick pondered as his wedding grew ever nearer, for the bed he had slept in with his first wife to be the bed he brought his second wife home to. Shelagh deserved far, far more than to lie in the bed that had been his for far longer than she had known him.<p>

So here he was, standing in the small furniture shop near the clinic. There were a few beds here, among other pieces of furniture, but those could stay. He knew she wouldn't have an issue with any of it being from his first wife, the sofas and chairs that she had bought and sewed and stitched to create their home together. She wouldn't have an issue with living in the house they had decorated together, because Shelagh was like that. It was a part of him, of the wife he had loved and the mother Tim had loved, and she would never come between that. Her kind nature just made Patrick love her all the more.

Shelagh wouldn't even have an issue with the bed, would rather he saved the money, Patrick knew that. But he wanted the bed he brought her home to, to be just theirs, always theirs. To never have had anybody sleeping in other than him, and her.

This bed was perfect, he thought, and before any doubt could slip into his mind he bought it, arranged for the delivery men to deliver it that afternoon. Shelagh lived an isolated life at the moment, and his heart clenched at the thought. But she thought he was working, and Timothy was at school, so his flat was empty. It would be safe for the bed to be brought home now rather than later. Because if she saw it, he knew he'd doubt his choice.

It was a lovely bed, one which he hoped to have many happy memories with. But it wasn't the usual choice of a newlywed, especially an established doctor who could afford a more luxurious one.

The bed was surprisingly narrow, not too narrow, it would still happily fit two people upon its soft mattress, but narrower than expected. But Patrick suffered each night, loneliness destroyed his sleep as each night he was forced to part from the woman he loved as she returned to her boarding house. Each night his dreams tormented, each night he woke alone. This bed would change that. This bed meant he wouldn't have to reach too far before his hands would touch hers.

This bed he picked for purely selfish reasons. He couldn't bear to be parted from Shelagh for too long, even if it was only by a few inches in their bed, even if it was only sleep that kept them apart.


	2. Chapter 2

Shelagh returned from the market, Angela in her pram beside her, bundled warm against the harsh elements, laden with food. As she juggled her key to the flat and forced open the door, she turned her back to the hallway and pulled the pram in with her. Only once the door was closed and the pram stowed to the side did she turn around.

She gasped as she took in her flat. Patrick and Timothy had been very busy in the time she had been gone, and the Christmas tree had been erected in its pot, a fire lit which burned merrily in the room. The flat was warm, and bright, and welcomed her home, drew her into her first Christmas as a married woman. Timothy emerged from the kitchen and hugged her when she opened her arms, rolling his eyes when she didn't release him as quickly as he hoped.

But he was soon gone, and as she peeked back into the hall a smile couldn't help but spread across her face as she watched him pick up his sister and have a cuddle.

As she turned round to face the room once more, she found herself in a strong pair of arms as her husband embraced her.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Turner." He spoke gently, but took her hand and led her further into the room before she had a chance to return his embrace. Curiously, she looked up at him, but laughed in amazement when she saw what now hung above their heads.

A single sprig of mistletoe hung in the centre of the room, and she barely had time to smile up at her husband before he bent slightly, and his lips met her forehead.

"Merry Christmas" he spoke again, as his hand caressed her cheek, as his arm reached round her to draw her impossibly closer.

His lips met her cheek, her other cheek, and finally her hand. Shelagh beamed up at him, her eyes sparkling with the firelight.

"Merry Christmas, Patrick" she finally said, and at last, _at last_, his lips met hers.

Timothy peered round the corner and beamed as he saw his parents kissing under the mistletoe.

"Dad doesn't go for that kind of stuff" he explained in a whisper to his sister, "but I know mum does and dad likes it secretly. Fred gave it to me earlier and while you were out with mum I put it up while dad was doing the tree."

Angela could only giggle at her brother. In a few years time, it would be the pair of them conspiring to make their dad be the romantic person he secretly was, but this year it was only Timothy while she watched in adoration from his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

This is a continuation of the last chapter, and is dedicated to Ali.

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><p>Their father was not of the romantic sort, publicly at least. He seemed to prefer giving off an air of detachment, of sternness that turned its nose up at the mere hint of romance.<p>

But Timothy and Angela knew better, Timothy because he had grown up with their father for all of his sixteen years and had seen his father with his mother, and later his courtship of and marriage to his stepmother, Angela's mother, Shelagh. He knew how Shelagh enjoyed Patrick being romantic, and knew Patrick enjoyed being romantic, but it irritated Timothy more than anything else how his father just did not know how to be romantic.

It had been Timothy who had, through a written note, proposed to Shelagh for his confused father, it had been Timothy who had hidden his illness from the couple so that they would have the quiet wedding on Christmas Eve they so wanted - although, of course, he, and they, had preferred the wedding when it finally happened in late Spring to the ceremony that had been planned. It had been Timothy who had kicked his father into action on their first Christmas as a family, forcing him to put the tree up while he went and got the mistletoe. Mistletoe as a concept Patrick secretly liked, but would never make the effort to do so.

Angela knew better because her adored older brother had told her every day throughout her four years of life that her father _was_ romantic.. Just inept. She did know without him telling her that their father was a sweetheart, a far cry from the district GP that attended the births, deaths and everything in between every day and had to have a stiff upper lip through it all. Angela's daddy was the best daddy she could possibly hope for, who always pulled her into his bed when she woke early, who read to her, played with her, sung with her, danced with her, whatever he was in the middle of doing, her daddy would always stop temporarily to give her his full attention or steal a cuddle.

So together they worked well, to give their mother the romance she deserved. Shelagh never asked for it, merely accepted it if it occurred (a habit that remained from her time as Sister Bernadette), but always thanked her two children profusely.

It was Timothy who, at the age of sixteen booked a restaurant for Christmas Eve for his two parents to celebrate what would have been their fifth wedding anniversary. The date had passed his father by as it usually would but he knew his stepmother, the woman who had been his mother for so many years, would be touched at his thoughtfulness. He made sure that he would be home on Christmas Eve and that they would not need to worry about his little sister at all.

When he had told his father about the meal, Patrick had been surprised and more than a little embarrassed that his son would do that for him and remember the significance of the day and the season when he, the husband, had forgotten. Neither Patrick, nor Timothy told Shelagh the exact plans for the evening, or that it had been Timothy and Angela who had gone along to the restaurant together to book it, rather than her husband.

It was a dressed up Shelagh who left the house that Christmas Eve at Patrick's side, wrapped up warm against the chill and her gloved hand tucked neatly through the crook in his arm. Once they were gone, Timothy called Angela and she scurried to their hiding place, brought out the sprig of mistletoe they had placed there a few hours before.

Her older brother hoisted her high into his arms and together they hung it in the living room. Angela's round face quickly beamed as they stepped back to view the finished room, and she giggled as her brother kissed her noisily on the cheek before carrying her upstairs and tucking her into bed, all ready for Christmas morn.

It was to a silent and sleeping house that Patrick and Shelagh returned, and the cold was starting to permeate the rooms as the fire had long since gone out. But on their way to bed, Patrick grinned when he saw the sprig of mistletoe that had definitely not been there before, and led his wife to it, kissing her underneath it as his love for her poured out of him.

He wasn't a romantic man, Patrick. But he did like sweet meaningless traditions, especially if it meant pleasing the woman who held his heart, who stood before him, who kissed him on Christmas Eve because _she_ loved him _too_.


	4. Chapter 4

This is is dedicated to Sarah, for being a bit of idiot, Ali, for laughing at her, and Hannah, because I hope you laugh. Xx

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><p>"What on earth does that say?" Asked Timothy, as he stared at the piece of paper his father had just deserted. His father flushed, and mumbled something.<p>

"What?" Timothy asked again as he stared at Patrick. His father sighed, and returned to his side to study the paper.

"It says Shelagh Turner." He told his son, as he stared at the two words, his own surname and her first name, united on one paper. Timothy, too, stared at the sheet.

"Shelagh Turner?" He asked incredulously, staring from his father to the illegible scribble on the sheet of paper, "you're not even getting married for two weeks!"

"Don't show it to Shelagh!" His father ordered, before he thought better and grabbed the piece of paper himself, folded it and placed it in his pocket.

"She wouldn't be able to read it anyway" sang out Timothy as he left the room to grab a drink, but peered round the door to watch his dad take the paper out again and smile at the words he had written.

A few months later, once Christmas had long since passed, Shelagh found the small piece of paper and stared at it in utter confusion. Her stepson, when he returned from school, found her looking at it in the hallway and peered round her shoulder to see what she was holding.

Upon seeing the folded sheet, he burst out laughing.

"He didn't want you to see that!" He gasped out between laughs.

"What does it say?" Shelagh asked, bemused. Tim peered round her shoulder again to see his father's scrawl.

"He wrote it in December" he explained, "before I was ill. Apparently, it says Shelagh Turner..?" Shelagh stared again at the sheet in her hands.

"Apparently is definitely right" she murmured, "that could be an 'S'?" She paused, "before you were ill? So before we were married?" Tim merely grinned at her.

"I'm not so sure if that's an 'S' he said suddenly, "it could be an 'M'..." He leant into Shelagh's side as she giggled and she wrapped an arm round him before leading him into the kitchen for a snack.

They left the paper on the table for Patrick to find later on, and his shame at being found out, coupled with Tim's utter smugness that he had been right and Shelagh wouldn't be able to read it, and Shelagh's humour at the situation, became a family joke, one that was used to embarrass the quiet man for the rest of his life.

Shelagh made him start practicing legible handwriting the very next day.


	5. Chapter 5

Their first Christmas Day together, they were supposed to awaken together, side by side, in bed. For the first time, they would have slept together, kissed each other, would have spent their first night together after pledging to love one another for always.

That's what was supposed to happen.

On Christmas morn, they woke with stiff necks, sore backs, and a black cloud clogging their hearts. They awoke facing each other, sitting on stiff plastic chairs, the artificial bright light and the drab hospital room filling their blurry vision. His son lay between them, a machine forcing him to breathe as he struggled to regain any consciousness, struggled to fight back against his resistant lungs.

Shelagh couldn't help but wish that instead of spending their first Christmas together under the scrutiny of harsh nurses and matrons, that they could have spent it together, in Patrick's flat. That she could have, and here she blushed, woken in his arms, woken to her first day as Mrs Turner.

But it wasn't to be.

It wasn't until the following Christmas that she realised that actually their last had been perfect. When she woke that Christmas, she was where she wanted to be. She lay curled in his arms, their daughter in her cradle, their son in his room. Together they were a family, and that was what was most important.

Perhaps it could have been better, perhaps she could have been married, ideally Timothy would never have become sick, or perhaps she could have noticed earlier. But if it wasn't for his stay in hospital, she wouldn't have reunited with the nuns, wouldn't have reunited with the nurses. She wouldn't have married Patrick with all of them by her side. Perhaps they would have found out about the scarring earlier, perhaps because of that they wouldn't have Angela but another child. Of course, she wouldn't know what she would miss, but the idea now of another child replacing her small daughter was unforgivable.

But now, with her family surrounding her, it wasn't the big things that mattered last year. It wasn't that Timothy had been so seriously ill, or that her wedding had been postponed. It wasn't that she had woken in a hospital ward rather than in her husband's bed.

She had spent last Christmas with Patrick, and with Timothy. This year they had Angela too. And she knew, now, that whatever happened at Christmas time, it would be perfect so long as they were together. Whether that be at home, or at Nonnatus, or in a hospital again, together they could face it. It was Patrick, and Timothy, and Angela that made Christmas perfect for her. Not the place, but them. Her family.


	6. Chapter 6

When shadows filled the room and endless time ticked on, forever, Patrick realised the truth.

She wasn't coming back.

He stood in that kitchen, the ring in his pocket, and light faded from the sky until only his humiliation stood public to face the bitter truth.

She had given up on him.

It had been her, her smile, her kind nature, her love for his son, that let him fight through the cloud of depression that filled his heart after he lost his wife. To lose her now as well may just kill him.

He had to return through the smog to home. Tell his son she had faded from their life like snow melted into the ground. She had been the bluebells in the Spring but what Spring, now, did he have. Instead, the smog, he faced. Fighting through the suffocating overwhelming cloud that filled his lungs even though the sky above was blue and the streets clear.

The smog was inside him.

He turned and left the building and she was there. Sister Julienne stood with her but she was in the habit and not in her other clothes. She turned and saw him but did not meet his gaze, did not give the smile that never failed to lighten his heart.

It sank.

He thought she had left, thought she knew as he had known that they had a future together, to live with love for evermore.

He had failed. Their friendship too seemed irreparable if she could not even look at him now. His sanity lost itself as he lost her and he succumbed to the deep depression, let it win his body and claim it as his own for he had lost.

Patrick woke. His chest shook as he tried to get breath after breath of cool air into his lungs as he struggled to shake the heavy weight sitting on his heart. Movement stirred beside him and oh, sweet relief, she was there!

She moved towards him sleepily, curled into his body and succumbed to sleep once more.

It had been a bitter nightmare, all his worst fears plaguing his sleep but it lied, it always lied. She had left her Sisters, she had joined him, they had married, they were parents. Their daughter lay in her cot as his eyes blinked to acclimatise themselves to the shadows of the night filled room and took in her sleepy whimpers. Not two Christmases ago he and Tim had been alone. Last Christmas he had Shelagh by his side to love him through Tim's dreadful illness and this year their family was complete.

It had been a terror but a fictional one. Shelagh was Mrs Turner. Timothy was an older brother. He had a daughter now and suddenly his life revolved around a little girl who's every snuffle made his heart expand.

Never fear the nightmares. The truth is always better. He stared at his slumbering daughter. Her thumb lay in her mouth, her face the most beautiful thing he had ever seen as she lay just feet from his bed. He could gaze upon her sleeping form all night. Her image always kept his fears at bay.


	7. Chapter 7

Dedicated to Ali, you know why. Well done! Xxx

It was a cold night in early December, and Patrick stood by the door, his long overcoat wrapped around him and insulating his body against the cold just outside. His son stood beside him, a similar coat adorning his shoulders. Scarves tied around both their necks, but they couldn't leave yet.

He called to his wife impatiently, for if she did not emerge soon they would be late. Finally she appeared, her own coat buttoned up and gloves covering her delicate hands.

In her arms she held their daughter, warmly buttoned up in a small blue duffel coat that Patrick had bought her not long ago. A small hat that Sister Monica Joan had proudly given his darling girl adorned her precious head, and little mittens enveloped her tiny fists.

Shelagh lay Angela down in her pram, and finally they could leave. They set off in to the evening, making their way to catch the bus in the cold light. Together, they heaved the pram onto the bus, and Patrick bought the tickets from the conductor while his wife and children settled down. It was a long way in a cold bus, and so they must be patient.

It wasn't until darkness had completely fallen that they arrived, and left the bus to walk through the bustling streets to Trafalgar Square. A huge tree stood tall in the square, a Christmas tree that had been sent from Oslo. Small lights decorated the tree, although they could not yet see them. The tree seemed undecorated, bare.

Patrick and Tim had never been to see the tree be lit before. Shelagh had never been able to, unable to travel so far from Nonnatus House, and in December last year Angela hadn't even been a twinkle in a teenager's eye.

The mayor stood, and spoke at length.

Then hush.

Silence fell, and the crowd grew transfixed as lights started to appear within the tree until it sparkled. Everyone applauded, but quietly. The stillness of the night, the anticipation, the beauty of the tree - it was pure magic. Christmas had come.

In the light reflected from the tree, Timothy watched his father courteously wrap his arm around his mother before bending down to kiss her, tenderly, on the cheek. Shelagh gazed at him, transfixed in his eyes, and Tim looked away. He loved seeing his father so happy, loved seeing Shelagh so happy, but the magic of the moment felt he was intruding on something very private.

Shelagh and Patrick's love for each other was eternal, and the magic of Christmas time seemed to enhance it even more. Their love was quiet, exquisite, precious, and just so joyful.


	8. Chapter 8

For Sarah, just because.

Shelagh knelt on the floor, sheets of bright paper at her side. A role of sellotape had been placed upon the table, and rolls of ribbon had been placed out of her daughter's reach.

Timothy was at school, Patrick, at work. Angela lay on her back on the rug next to her mother, as she was only a few months old and Shelagh couldn't quite bear to leave her in her bed or in her pram while she was busy making Christmas.

Angela's face alone, made Christmas special for her doting mother.

Shelagh was wrapping presents. She had done so before, of course, for as Sister Bernadette she and the other nuns had always exchanged small gifts, and the same with the nurses. But while the nurses were able to purchase gifts for the nuns and each other, Sister Bernadette and the other Sisters had always given gifts that they had made - be it cake, knitted clothes, food, small trinkets that were had little monetary value. They had not spent the money they could, instead they used it to bring pleasure to the residents of Poplar, ensuring orphans and those living in abject poverty had reasonable comfort over Christmas.

Last years Christmas had been a disaster, their planned wedding and later Timothy's illness meant that though small presents had been bought, they had not been exchanged until he had returned home from hospital, after Christmas had passed. Besides, then, Shelagh had had very little money to spare. All the money that has been returned to her after leaving the Order went on essential items. Food. The small room in the boarding house. A few items of clothes. Essential household items. She barely had any left to spare on such frivolous items as Christmas gifts.

This Christmas her husband's income was more than enough to allow her to spoil him and their children, and give gifts to friends.

Last year had been her first as Shelagh Mannion in a very long time, having lived under the mask of Sister Bernadette for so many years.

Last year had been her last as Shelagh Mannion. She had married in late Spring and this Christmas was Shelagh Turner.

She studied the small label she had placed upon the latest parcel, a gift to Jenny.

'With love from Patrick, Shelagh, Timothy and Angela'

She was part of a unit now, a family unit that signed Christmas cards together and sent gifts from the family as a whole. Her name was linked every Christmas with Patrick's, gifts and cards with love from her husband and her.

Timothy as well, was a part of her family now. Her darling son's name came after hers. She enjoyed this feeling of inclusion, of being part of a family. She much preferred this life to the moderate, quiet seclusion of Sister Bernadette of old.

They had come so far in a year, from two, to three, to four. The greatest gift she had received that year wasn't a Christmas present, but had been presented to her by Patrick.

She smiled at the baby that still lay beside her, kissed her warm cheek, and then was unable to stop smiling as she once again finished signing a label with Angela's name.

Christmas was very real this year. She was celebrating, her husband was, her son, and her daughter, all together.

The gifts were wrapped. She was ready.


	9. Chapter 9

One quick kiss.

It was all Patrick wanted, but he hadn't been a married man for a while, ever since his wife had succumbed to her illness and led he and their son alone.

One kiss.

The handsome doctor would quite easily attract a woman to kiss him, but the one woman he was sure could satisfy his need, couldn't.

She was wrapped up, a friend bundled up in clothes wedding her to God. She was unattainable, her habit a barrier to all who watched her.

Yet she had befriended many. All the young nurses liked her, were her friends that friends could be when there was such a massive cultural barrier. They had one life, she had another. And there was him. They were friends, weren't they? He, the widowed doctor with the young son, and she, the young nun who worked tirelessly beside him in the poor East End of London.

But he wanted more. And he couldn't have it.

He watched her from afar as she tended gently to the expecting mothers, spoke gently to their young children. Watched as she passed the small Christmas decorations that adorned the room, watched as she made herself a cup of tea, watched as she smiled at him.

He flushed.

He wanted more but she was a friend that was separated by vows greater than those that had bound him to his wife.

Just one year later and everything had changed.

He had her.

He would have her in a few short weeks, when they married in front of his friends and his son.

She would be his, her name tied with his, forever.

He didn't have to watch her from afar, for her heart, he knew now, belonged to him. Just as his had belonged to her for so long.

As a woman who had once been a nun, she was still very reserved. But one quick kiss was definitely allowed, although his fiancée was still shy. But when she joined him under the mistletoe, one quick kiss showed her how he loved her. Passed emotions tenderly and filled her heart with joy. Promised what was to come.

Quick kisses carried them through to the revised wedding day of Spring. He had gone from staring and wishing at a woman who could never be his, To a year later she was his fiancée, nearly his wife, who kissed him because she could, and because she loved him, and because she wanted that physical promise just as much as he desired it.


	10. Chapter 10

For all the MMEPAC girls

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><p>There was one last present under the tree. It was wrapped neatly, with a ribbon tightly bound on top and the label attached said 'Angela'.<p>

Angela was very excited. There had been a similar present underneath the tree for Timothy, and the little three year old knew that neither present had been from Mummy or Daddy.

All of Mummy and Daddy's presents were wrapped in a silvery wrapping paper, and these two were red.

Shelagh passed the present over to her little daughter, who took it eagerly and unwrapped it, tearing the paper in her haste to open it. Her mother quickly took it off her again, and pointed out the label.

Angela sighed, but obliged. Her parents had made her look at the label while they read it out to her for each present so she knew, and they knew, who to thank.

'For Angela, love Jenny' Shelagh read, and smiled as she passed the gift back to her daughter. Finally, Angela was able to tear the gift open fully and reveal what was inside, before squealing when she saw what it was.

"Who's Jenny, Mummy?" Angela asked belatedly.

"You know who she is, Angel" her brother replied from where he was examining his own gift - a large sketch book and pencils that Jenny had obviously picked out with the help of Philip.

"No I don't!" Angela insisted, while Patrick sent a warning glance at his son, who subsided.

"Yes you do, darling" Shelagh told her, "we went to her wedding in the summer. You thought she was a princess, remember?" Angela eventually nodded, and returned to looking at the small pile in front of her in awe.

"She remembered Mummy! Look!" Shelagh laughed when she saw exactly what Jenny had sent her daughter.

"You'll have to wear it when you visit Daddy in clinic in a few days." Patrick looked up and beamed when he saw Angela looking at him, before he strode over and squeezed her until she squeaked, murmuring "Daddy's little Angel" as he cuddled her.

A few days later, Patrick had to go to the one clinic that he and the nuns provided in between Christmas and New Year. He was waiting eagerly for Shelagh to drop Angela off, for he had said he and the nurses would keep an eye on her while she and Timothy went shopping.

When Angela toddled in with her mother and straight into his arms, the few mothers present, as well as the nurses and the nuns, couldn't help but smile. The rest of the afternoon, Angela followed her father around when she was allowed to, chattering away the entire time to anyone who would listen, wearing a miniature white coat and a stethoscope identical to her daddy's.


	11. Chapter 11

For Ali, who isn't very well. I hope you feel better soon xxx

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><p>When Sister Bernadette became ill and left for the sanatorium, Doctor Turner's heart had twisted painfully upon itself. She was a nun, her illness should not break his heart. But it did.<p>

When Shelagh returned, left the Order and her Sisters and pledged herself to him, agreed to become a Turner, his heart freely expanded once more. He had his son, he had his fiancée, his life was perfect.

When his son became ill and she was ejected from the cubicle in which his son lay motionless, he walked past her in to the hospital ward. Left her alone outside as he had left her outside the large sanatorium months before. And she had left him. While he sat at Timothy's bedside, she had wandered the streets alone. Miserable.

But she returned, returned to him and his son. She had rejoined the Sisters, who pledged to love her as they had done when she was one of them. And Shelagh returned to his side, returned to Timothy's bedside.

When he had lied to her about his past, not told her the truth, that it could be an issue in getting her what she wanted - a child of her own, when all he wanted was to make her happy, and he had left her again. Alone. He had soldiered on while his - their - son firmly tried to push them together once more. Shelagh hadn't been alone, for she had Timothy. And she had him, if only he allowed it.

She had never given up, had always returned to his side.

But he didn't leave, the one time it was important.

He left her, standing in a room full of cots. Left her alone before picking up the small baby - his daughter, and cradled her in his arms, before returning to Shelagh's side and giving her the piece of the puzzle that completed their family.

He would always return. Life had joined them together in ways they had never imagined a mere few years before. They always found each other. Would always find each other. Life was not worth living apart.

He was a doctor and she was a nurse, and they healed each other by mere presence alone. He loved her, and she loved him, and their first Christmas together as a healthy family, they spent the day together. No hospital wards, no shutting each other away from the broken pieces of their hearts.

The night before Boxing Day, once their children were asleep, Shelagh returned to Patrick's arms in front of the fire. They lay quietly together, no need for talk. They would always return to each other. Their hearts would never mend themselves if they didn't. The love they had for each other was greater than anything either had imagined when Shelagh had left the Order. One could see it in the blush upon her cheeks, in the tender look in his eyes, the sparkle in hers, as they kissed underneath the mistletoe.


	12. Chapter 12

If Angela is born in 1959, she turns 20 in 1979. Assuming she marries (Stephen) when she is 25, that is 1984. If she has a daughter two years later, the daughter will be born in 1986. The daughter (Lucy) will turn 11 in 1997.

If I go by Ali's thinking, which I am, Shelagh is 31 in 1959. This means she was born in 1928. So in 1997 she was 69. If Patrick is 48 in 1959, then he was born in 1911. This means he is 86 in 1997.

Timothy is 12 years older than Angela. This means he was born in 1947. He turned 20 in 1967. If he married at 28, that's 1975. He and his wife (Catherine) have twins in 1980 (Claire and Paul). They turn 17 in 1997.

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><p>The knock on the door startled Shelagh out of her thoughts, and she smiled as she made her way to answer it. Her husband smiled at her as she passed him, but didn't stand up. He couldn't, as he needed a walking stick to aid his steps and to get up to greet his family before returning to his chair would be a pointless task.<p>

It was the morning of Christmas Eve, in the year of 1997. She and Patrick had been married for thirty eight years, and had two children, two children in law, and three beautiful grandchildren to show for it. She opened the door to find Angela, and her family on the doorstep. Her young granddaughter rushed in to her arms as she greeted them all warmly with the Scottish accent that even after so many decades of living in London had never left her.

Angela kissed her mother on the cheek as she passed her, before she hung her coat up and turned round for a hug herself. Shelagh eventually extricated herself from Lucy and returned her daughter's hug properly, before she was able to greet Stephen, who was still standing in the doorway. He beamed at her warmly as she invited him in, and followed her into the house after leaving their bags at the bottom of the stairs.

By the time the three adults returned to the living room, Lucy had clambered onto Patrick's armchair and was wrapped in his embrace, sitting quietly as they enjoyed their reunion.

It wasn't long before Shelagh needed to answer the door once more, and this time it was to greet Timothy, her beloved stepson.

"Hello Mum!" He called out from behind several bags that she could see contain brightly wrapped gifts. "Merry Christmas!" The greeting was echoed on all sides by Catherine, Shelagh's daughter in law and Timothy's wife, and their two children.

"Hi Granny" Paul said quietly as he walked into the house. He had grown in to a quiet, reserved young man, who had decided he was going to follow in his grandfather's and aunt's footsteps and become a doctor.

In contrast, his twin sister Claire was cheeky and loud, and currently wanted to study law, although Christmas the year before, she had wanted to study French, and before that it had been, like Paul, medicine.

"Hello Granny!" She called out as she hugged Shelagh, before racing to find her grandfather. Claire was a whirlwind, and greeted 'Grandpa' exuberantly, before hugging her aunt and uncle, and her young cousin just as enthusiastically.

They always spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day together. It was a tradition that had started many years before, when Angela was still unmarried, and the twins were born, and that first year, and every year since, they would all gather on Christmas Eve at the Turners large house.

Shelagh rolled her eyes at Catherine, and led her in to the living room to find Patrick laughing at his two children. Timothy and Angela were hanging up a sprig of mistletoe together, Angela holding it up while Tim tied the ribbon, before he proceeded to kiss her on the cheek as he had done every year, for the last thirty four years.

The party atmosphere continued well in to the night before eventually they all retired to bed. Christmas Day was the following day, and much was to be done.

The stockings filled, the presents placed under the tree. Everything was ready.

The following day was just as busy. The house, often so quiet with just Patrick and Shelagh, was filled with laughter as the family enjoyed Christmas together.

As the presents were exchanged, Lucy's gift from her grandparents was a book, that read '_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_'. Upon opening it, she discovered that it had been signed by the author herself, and she threw herself on her grandparents in delight.

That night, Lucy snuggled up in the bed she used when she stayed at her grandparents house, and Shelagh sat beside her.

"Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much." Shelagh's calm voice reading to her granddaughter the opening of the book began a tradition that went on for years, as she read the Harry Potter series one by one as they were released. It was a tradition that just they shared, that was theirs alone. Just as both her and Patrick had had something that was just theirs with both of their children, now they had something with each of the grandchildren.

Together, they made memories for all the family.

As she and her husband kissed under the mistletoe that night, Shelagh thought she loved their little traditions. The things they shared with each other, with their children, with their grandchildren. But traditions at Christmas were always extra magical, and never failed to make her fall in love with her husband all over again. When he smiled at her, when he played with their grandchildren, when he treated the twins as adults rather than children. When he welcomed their children in law into their family with open arms. Everything he did made her fall in love with him all over again.


	13. Chapter 13

For Sarah, who's children have only just gone to sleep. Merry Christmas xxx

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><p>Patrick was sitting in his armchair, looking bemusedly at the toys, and food, on the floor. Wrapping paper was strewn across the floor, ribbons streaming from every surface, and two stockings sat on either side of the living room.<p>

His wife sat in the middle of the floor, a frown creasing her forehead over so slightly. Presents were piled on either side of her body, wrapped and placed next to the stocking of the child for whom they were intended.

Gifts were also piled under the tree, but those were from Shelagh, Patrick, and their friends. These presents, some wrapped, some not, were supposed to fill the stockings.

Patrick had tried to help, but Shelagh had caught him wrapping a present for Angela and attempting to place it in Timothy's stocking. Then she had caught him wrapping a present so messily, that the folds at the end doubled the package size. That was when he had been sent to the sofa in disgrace while she finished alone.

The stockings were still openly displayed upon the rug, a few presents placed haphazardly around the room, when footsteps creaked down the hall. The tread was light, and they both recognised the sound of their six year old daughter.

Shelagh looked panickedly up at her husband, and he threw himself in to action. From his comfortable seat upon the sofa, to picking up presents and stockings and wrapping paper and ribbons and hiding them behind the cushions, the curtains, in the cupboards, was one fluid movement. They worked rapidly, and both breathed a large sigh of relief when the last evidence of Father Christmas was hidden, just in time for Angela to enter the room.

"Mummy I can't sleep!" She called out as she came and climbed on to the sofa next to her father. Patrick nervously shifted her on to his lap so she wouldn't lean on a cushion and cause anything to rustle.

"Angela, it's time for bed, darling." Shelagh spoke quietly, her eyes still scrolling around the room searching for rogue signs of Christmas Eve that Angela, knowing their luck, would pick out instantly.

"But I can't sleep!" Angela reminded her mother, "Daddy, tell her!" Angela knew her father, knew he would do absolutely anything for her, but had almost forgotten Shelagh was in the room when she tried to get Patrick to overrule her mother.

"Mummy's right, Angel" Patrick said sternly, "we put you to bed two hours ago. Coming out and talking to us isnt going to get you to sleep. Lying in bed, _with your eyes closed!_ And _staying there_, will get you to sleep. Christmas Day will never come if you're awake. Your brother is asleep. _He_ isn't coming out and making a fuss."

Angela's lower lip trembled, but before she had the chance to start screaming, Patrick lifted her in to his arms and stood.

"Bed, my Angel. Christmas will still be here tomorrow. Christmas _will_ be here tomorrow. Besides, the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can wake up Timothy and open your presents together. But if you don't go to sleep now, Mummy won't let you open your presents in the morning until you've had a nap and you will have to wait until after we get back from Nonnatus House to open them all."

Shelagh was nodding along as her husband spoke, and Angela eventually relented, ceased the wriggling in Patrick's arms, and instead was still for him to take her to bed.

"Say goodnight to Mummy again." He told her, and Shelagh crossed the room to his side.

"Goodnight, dearest" she murmured, and kissed Angela's head, stroked her hair. "Now go back to bed with Daddy, maybe go to the lavatory first, and go to sleep. Night night darling."

"Goodnight Mummy" Angela said, and Patrick finally carried her out. As he carried her down the corridor and safely away from all the Christmas presents, Shelagh breathed a sigh of relief.

Once Angela was safely tucked up in bed, Patrick sat on her quilt. It was pulled up to her chin, and her long blonde hair streamed across it. Patrick's hand instinctively sought her locks, caressed her long hair as he spoke to her.

"The sooner you go to sleep, Angel" and his voice held a slight mischievous tone, "the sooner you can wake your brother up by jumping on his bed. Hmm?" Angela giggled sleepily, and Patrick held her hand as she finally drifted off, before kissing her head tenderly.

"I love you, Angel" he whispered as he left the room, returned to his wife, his role as Father Christmas, and the mistletoe.


	14. Chapter 14

For Sarah, for Ali, for Hannah, for Hannah, and last but definitely not least, for Ashley.

* * *

><p>She.<p>

Angela lay on her rug on the floor, tightly wrapped up in warm winter clothes. Timothy had long ago been playing with her, but had left her after a while to read to himself.

Patrick could not stop staring at her.

He swallowed, and eventually leant to pick her up, breathing in her sweet smell that was a combination of the baby smell of milk, and talcum powder, and Shelagh's perfume. While Shelagh was distracted in the kitchen, he carried their girl, their daughter, out of the living room and along the corridor to their room.

He had been going to put her in her cradle.. But he couldn't remove her from his arms just as much as he couldn't tear his gaze away from her face, her eyes, her nose, her blonde hair.

She hadn't been his. She might never have been his, had her mother been allowed to keep her.

He eventually sat upon his bed, and stared at the angel curled in his arms. He found himself sliding down the bed until he was lying down, Angela beside him, comfortably nestled into the crook of Daddy's arm.

Had her mother come from a Home like the one he had visited today? Had she?

His Angela might have had a bad start, but it had been a start with a mother who had been going to keep her. Perhaps was as distraught as the young mother he had seen at the Home.

How could he forget that she hadn't started life as his? How?

Her face, though it bore no similarities to either his, Shelagh's or indeed Timothy's, was as familiar to him and as loved by him as Timothy's own. She was growing up to be his, his Angel, his daughter, his much adored family member.

She wasn't his. But she was now their precious daughter, one who held so much love. And maybe she hadn't been his, maybe she had once had another mother, another father, and perhaps both had loved her as much as he did now.

But staring at her tiny features, he knew that wasn't possible.

He would never forget the sacrifice one young teenager had made to give them her daughter, never forget that the act of doing so had given him a gift truly unimaginable. For now he had Angela, a small child who he adored beyond all imagination. She was his, just as much as he was hers. He was her Daddy, would always be her Daddy, just as much as Shelagh would be her Mummy, in all the ways that mattered. She held his heart. Had always held his heart, from the minute he set eyes on her. She had Daddy wrapped around her tiny finger, and as Patrick stared at her with tender besotted eyes, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

Angela Julienne Turner.

She was always going to be his.


End file.
